


The Care and Feeding of Your Depressed Super-Nerd

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, Fluff, M/M, Self Care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: After the Trials, Quentin’s depression catches up with him and it’s up to Eliot to make sure his friend doesn’t sink beyond anyone’s reach.





	The Care and Feeding of Your Depressed Super-Nerd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [machtaholic (cinderella81)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinderella81/gifts).



> This is for my Wifey, Becks, @machtaholic, on her birthday. I hope you have a day that’s as magical as you are, honey! / I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic! Enjoy.

# The Care and Feeding of Your Depressed Super-Nerd

By Lexalicious70

 

Eliot first noticed a change in Quentin after the Trials ended.

 

While the talented but awkward first-year had dominated the Welter’s tournament and completed the first half of the challenges with what Eliot had to admit were flying colors, he’d withdrawn from his new friends since then, spending more and more time alone in his room. Now, three days after the Welter’s game, as he and Margo walked back to the Physical Kids cottage after their PA class, he voiced his concerns.

 

“I don’t think Q is okay.”

 

“Of course he’s not.” Margo pushed her long brunette hair back over one shoulder. “He just found out his dad has brain cancer. That’s the world’s biggest bottle of Suck. Give him time to figure things out.”

 

“He’s been figuring things out for a few days now. And he hasn’t been to dinner at all,” Eliot said as the peaked roof of the cottage came into sight. “Maybe he wants to talk about it but he doesn’t know how to reach out.”

 

“Um.” Margo eyed him. “Do you really want to be on the receiving end of that conversation? There’s no ‘it’ll be okay’ when it comes to terminal cancer, El.”

 

“No. But life is all about being on the receiving end of unpleasant things.” Eliot unwarded the cottage door and pushed it open. “And that’s why the gods created wine. Chill a bottle of pinot for me?” He kissed Margo on the cheek and she sighed as he vanished up the steps.

 

“Terrible idea!” She called after him, rolling her eyes as she went to the bar to find a bottle of Eliot’s favorite pinot.

 

The second floor of the cottage sat in silence; Eliot had seen Alice headed for the library after her advanced languages class and the other doors were warded, indicating their occupants were out. Eliot paused at Quentin’s closed door and then lifted a hand to knock.

 

“Quentin?” He paused, knocked again. “Q . . . are you in there?”

 

Silence stretched out for thirty ticks of Eliot’s watch. A cold, bony finger of unease pressed against his chest.  

 

“Quentin? It’s Eliot!” He tried the door and found it warded, but it was a weak first-year ward, a frayed piece of magical thread. Eliot broke it with a quick jerk of his left hand and turned the door’s knob. The door swung open and Eliot gave an involuntary step back as an unexpected odor wafted out. “Jesus . . .” He waved a hand in front of his face and stepped into the room. The day was cool but sunny outside, but the room was shrouded in darkness, the curtains firmly drawn and pinned shut with a row of clothespins, an infantry against any sunlight that might try to peek through. A layer of clothes hid the floor’s carpeting, and a layer of stale air made Eliot’s lips press together in distaste. “Quentin?” He made his way over to the bed. Books, a few candy wrappers, empty soda cans, and several days’ worth of crumbs littered the duvet. A breathing lump dominated this indoor landfill, hidden from sight by what looked like enough blankets to cover most of the city’s five boroughs.

 

_Breathing—breathing’s good_ , Eliot thought to himself as he stepped closer and put a hand on what he guessed was Quentin’s head. “Quentin! Hey!” He gave the lump a brief shake and it jerked under his hand. One corner of the blanket peeled away from the inside and Quentin peered up at Eliot, his hair a greasy, matted fog framing a face that hadn’t seen the sun in several days.

 

“Fucking. What.”

 

Eliot paused.

 

_You’ve breached the cave and woke up the Gollum—so now what, stupid?_

 

“Ummghh.” Quentin pulled the blanket back up, taking the pause as the end of the conversation. Eliot seized that corner and yanked it down, and Quentin groaned, slapping both hands over his face as if the room rioted with sunlight. “Quit it.”   


“I will certainly not quit it!” Annoyance bubbled up in Eliot’s chest and he peeled the layer of blankets back until he could drop them onto the floor. It caused a gust of body odor-tainted air Eliot could have done without, but he sallied forth anyway. “Jesus Christ, Quentin, how long have you been laying here?”

 

“Dunno. Don’ care.” Quentin curled up and kept his hands over his face. The plaid sleep pants and oversized white tee he wore were wrinkled and looked stiff to the touch, like a hobo’s blanket left under the porch of an abandoned house.

 

“Well, it is now time-to-care-o’clock.” Eliot went to the window and removed the clothespins from the curtains with quick, businesslike motions and threw the drapes apart, letting the sunlight chase away the room’s shadows. Quentin made a wounded, soft squealing sound.

 

“I’m _tired_!” He said a moment later, groping for the covers Eliot had tossed aside. “Just let me sleep!” He

 

Eliot turned from the window.

 

“We have let you sleep. It’s been almost four days, Q . . . you can’t lie here any longer.” He stepped toward the bed and wrapped his long fingers around Quentin’s wrists, lowering his hands from his face. “Look—I can’t say I understand what you’re going through. I would have thrown a fucking party, in fact—”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“But that’s another story. You aren’t tired, you’re having a depressive episode. Maybe you know that and you’re in a place where you don’t have it in you to care, and that I do understand.” Eliot pushed a hand through his dark curls. “We don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to talk at all, actually. But I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t want to care whether you become a permanent part of that mattress.” He leaned over and slid his long arms under Quentin’s prone form, and the younger magician gave a surprised squeak of protest.

 

“What are you doing? Eliot!” Quentin pushed at him as Eliot lifted him into his arms. “Are you fucking crazy? Put me down! I want to go back to sleep!”

 

“That would be easier for both of us,” Eliot nodded. “But it’s not what needs to happen.” He walked down the hall to the last door on the right, which housed the upstairs bathroom. The door opened with a glance and the tub’s taps turned on their own as Eliot used his telekinesis on them. He set Quentin on the closed toilet seat and lifted the hem of his tee shirt. Quentin retaliated, slapping at his hands.

 

“Goddamn it, you’re not my fucking nurse!”

 

“You’re right. But I am your friend, and whether or not you want to admit it, you need my help.”

 

“You never help anyone but yourself!” Quentin snapped, squirming as Eliot’s size and determination won out and the wretched tee shirt came off. “So what makes me a special case?”

 

Eliot ignored the bitchery Quentin was trying to force-feed him, recognizing a defense mechanism he himself used often but with a great deal more success.

 

“You’re cute when you’re trying to verbally devastate people.” Another tug and yank, and Quentin’s grungy sleep pants joined the tee in the corner. Quentin blinked and covered his lap with both hands, but Eliot silently reasoned he’d come too far to be concerned about Quentin’s modesty. He plucked him off up the toilet and set him into the bath water before adding a capful or two of lavender soak. It made a foaming mass of scented bubbles before Eliot shut the taps off.

 

“I need to fetch something from my room. Promise you won’t run off?”

 

Quentin scowled and folded his arms over his chest as he gave a petulant shrug. Eliot gathered up the dirty clothes as an added incentive for his friend to stay put and vanished out the door. He returned less than a minute later with a large purple wicker basket laden with soaps of all shapes, sizes and colors, two large magenta scrubbing loofas, and a collection of bottles filled with liquids that ranged in color from pink to orange to a mysterious aubergine. He set the basket on the closed toilet seat, removed his shoes and socks, and rolled up his sleeves before sitting on the wide edge of the tub, closest to Quentin’s head. The basket also contained a wide-bristled brush and a black comb, and Eliot plucked the brush out as he cast a troubled eye at Quentin’s matted hair. Starting at the crown, he used the brush and a touch of almond oil to work the mats from the tangled tawny tresses. Quentin sat in silence as the brush worked over his hair, but after a few moments, he began to give low, pleased noises that Eliot could only describe as purrs as he brushed and combed Quentin’s hair until both slid through without catching. A silver pitcher with a wide lip, large enough to hold about two cups of water, came out of the basket next. Eliot turned the hot water tap on and filled it. He slid a hand under Quentin’s chin and tipped his head back, and Quentin shivered visibly as the water cascaded over his head once, twice, and finally a third time before Eliot cracked open the bottle full of aubergine liquid. A scent filled the room: jasmine, amber, and something mysterious, like an attar of flowers Quentin had never encountered before. He sniffed again and then Eliot’s big, elegant hands were in his hair, massaging his scalp and sliding up under the hairline at his neck and causing goosebumps to chase up his spine. They worked the liquid into a rich foam that seemed to surround Quentin and banish some of his torpor. His shoulders flexed once then relaxed, and Eliot gave a soft hum of approval as he worked his hands all around Quentin’s hair. The silver cup reappeared then and more clean water rinsed the shampoo away.

 

“Where did that come from?” Quentin asked, glancing down at the basket. Eliot opened a bottle of pink conditioner and added it to the ends of his friend’s hair.

 

“I picked it up in this little shop I know in the East Village, near The Strand. The basket caught my eye.”

 

“I love The Strand,” Quentin murmured, and Eliot nodded.

 

“It has its charms.” Eliot’s hand slid under Quentin’s chin again and he smiled as he felt the younger man press against his hand this time.

 

“Head back,” He said, and Quentin obeyed. Warm water washed the conditioner away before Eliot filled a loofa with body wash and handed it over. “Wash up. Do you need help?”

 

“No, that’s okay—wait, El, please?” Quentin said as Eliot moved to rise. He paused.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I—don’t go. Please? I can wash myself, but—stay with me?”

 

“Of course.” Eliot settled back down and adjusted his shirt sleeves. He busied himself with putting caps back on the bottles and drying the little pitcher as Quentin washed himself. Nearly ten minutes passed before Quentin spoke again.

 

“You know what I was thinking about before?” He asked as he squeezed soapy water from the loofa and watched it patter into the tub.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“That part in the first _Superman_ movie . . . the one with Christopher Reeve. When Clark’s dad had a heart attack and he and his mom were standing at the grave and Clark said, ‘All those things I can do. All those powers. And I couldn’t even save him.’ I feel like that now, El . . . I’m a magician, I can move things and bend objects to my will and—and it’s like none of it matters because I can’t help my dad. If magic comes from pain, why can’t I turn that pain on his fucking tumor and make it disappear?”

 

“Magic is a dick, Q.” Eliot rose and pulled a clean white towel from the cupboard under the sink. “We pretend we have power over it, but I don’t think that’s the case at all. It’s like a pet cat that only likes you about half of the time and then turns to scratch your eyes out the other half. Up.” He said with a tilt of his chin as he opened the towel. Quentin got to his feet and stepped out of the tub, closing his eyes as the fabric enfolded him. Another dropped over his head and massaged his hair until it was merely damp.

 

“I guess that’s what caused me to spiral down—chasing that question. And then I started thinking about how I’m going to handle his dying and how my mom probably won’t even come back from Europe and leave it all for me—” The last word caught on a hitch and Eliot slipped an arm around him.

 

“No no—we aren’t going to think about things that haven’t happened yet. That’s how we give ourselves panic attacks.” Eliot ushered Quentin down the hall to his own room and turned on the lights. While the room wasn’t pristine, it was neater than Quentin’s. Eliot sat him on the bed and knelt behind him as he materialized the hairbrush from its place in the purple basket into his hand. He began to run the brush through Quentin’s hair, from the crown to the ends, until the anxiety bled from his body and he started to make those little purring sounds which, Eliot discovered, he enjoyed immensely.

 

“There we are,” he soothed, waving one hand at his closet as he spoke. A pair of black-and-red pajamas floated out and settled on the bed next to Quentin, who glanced down.

 

“These—these are my size. And they’re brand new.”

 

“Mmm.” Eliot nodded. “I believe in being prepared, Q.” He paused and then dropped a kiss on the top of the smaller man’s head. “Change into those but don’t run off.” He was gone before Quentin could question him, so he changed and waited. Eliot returned a few moments later with a wooden lap tray and Quentin blinked as he realized it contained a bowl of his favorite soup—Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable—and a mug of hot chocolate. The latter had been topped off with a generous dollop of Cool Whip.

 

“In.” Eliot said, jerking his chin at the bed, and Quentin climbed up onto the duvet.

 

“Are you sure—” Quentin cut himself off and obeyed as Eliot’s amber eyes narrowed. The tray was across his lap a moment later, the aroma of the soup making his stomach gurgle with interest. He stirred it, watching the alphabet-shaped noodles swirl around. “This is my favorite soup.”

 

“I guess you must have mentioned it once.” Eliot sat on the edge of the bed. “Or rather, you complained that you preferred the canned stuff one night when I made fresh vegetable soup for a dinner party.”

 

“I remember.” Quentin allowed himself a smile. “You called me a philistine.”

 

“You are a philistine—except when it comes to Fillory or other nerdy pursuits.” Eliot hunted in a nearby drawer and came up with a silver flask, which he sipped from. “But perhaps that’s just me being jealous at your capacity to care.”

 

Quentin glanced up from the bowl.

 

“You care too . . . you’re just selective.”

 

“Maybe. Now eat your uninspired canned soup.”

 

Quentin obeyed, eating a few careful spoonfuls until his appetite demanded more. A few moments later, the bowl was empty save for a bent-looking A. The hot chocolate was rich and delicious and creamy, and Quentin drained the mug a few moments later. Eliot sighed as he pulled a clean handkerchief from his vest and wiped whipped cream from Quentin’s full upper lip. The younger man blushed but didn’t protest. Eliot set the tray aside and the room’s lights went out a moment later. Quentin looked up, startled, and the mattress tilted as the duvet lowered with one smooth motion.

 

“El?” He questioned, and Eliot’s long arm looped over him a moment later, tugging but not demanding, until Quentin shifted back and made a little spoon to Eliot’s larger one.

 

“Go to sleep, Quentin. I’ll be right here.” He let his hand rest about mid-chest so Quentin didn’t question himself or any obligations he might have thought he had. The younger magician’s breathing evened out about twenty minutes later and Eliot allowed himself a smile.

 

_So maybe I am selective_ , he thought to himself. _But if that means I’ll be able to care when Quentin needs me to, that’s more of a trade off than I could ever ask for_.

 

Eliot closed his eyes, breathed in Quentin’s scent, and reveled in the feel of his soft hair until sleep tilted him into an oblivion.

 

_End_

 

 

  


 


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